


A Stand-Up Man

by Alethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Brotherly Bonding, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hunters & Hunting, POV Sam Winchester, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-06
Updated: 2005-11-06
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was not grimy!” Sam protested, annoyed as Dean just grinned again and looked at him fondly.</p>
<p>“Oh, who was it that spilled yogurt in my backpack?”</p>
<p>“I was five,” Sam said darkly.</p>
<p>“Haven’t you heard, Sam? People don’t change.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stand-Up Man

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the supernatural information was taken from _The Encyclopedia of Vampires, Werewolves, and Other Monsters_. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/158100.html).

_Mile 18,597 since Jessica._

How the hell did they get _into_ these situations? “You told me you didn’t sleep with her!” Sam accused hotly, still struggling, heedless of the stinging bite in his arms and chest.

“You told me to tell you that!”

“I didn’t tell you to lie.”

“You said, and I quote: ‘Dean. Tell me you didn’t sleep with her.’ I was just doing what you said, man.” From the sound of things Dean was straining just as hard. And to the same effect.

“It’s a figure of speech!”

“Well, maybe college boys know that…”

Sam stopped fighting and slumped. It was no use; the knots were far too tight. “And since when is it okay to lie to me?”

“Dude! I didn’t know she was gonna go all psycho and try to kill us.”

“I could have told you that! Anyone with more than five minutes of experience with a woman could have told you that.”

A final grunt and Dean stopped, too, sighing. His head thunked against the rusty pipes to which he was tied. “Hey, I last longer than five minutes. Now you’re just insulting me.”

“Dean, we’re going to die right now and it’s all your fault. This is what happens when you lie to your brother.”

“Please. We’re going to get out of this. We can’t die at the hands of a human. That’s just insulting.”

Sam shook his head. “Give me a second while I process the stunning logic of that thought.”

“I woulda been good at college, huh?” Dean asked, sounding inordinately pleased at the thought.

“Maybe if you majored in basketweaving. And never took any of the general ed courses. And—never talked.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I would have made a great basket weaver. There was this one time Dad and I were in Oaxaca and we needed a bowl to catch the blood of the—”

“Dean! Not the time, man.”

He made a put-upon noise. “Well, you’re the one who’s all doom and gloom over there. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

Sam smiled despite himself. “Fine. Consider it lightened.”

The sound of leather protesting let Sam know Dean twisted again, still trying to find a way around their restraints. Dean slumped back just as quickly, hitting his head on something less hollow and more solid from the sound of it. “Ow. Damn valves.”

“Maybe _she’s_ a basket weaver. These knots are unbelievable,” Sam mused, testing his bonds again.

“Oh. That. She used to help out on her dad’s boat when she was in college.”

Sam turned and attempted to look at Dean, ignoring the strain in his neck and the way it made the pain at the base of his skull _throb_. “You got her life story and you still couldn’t tell that she was going to lose it and go all Aileen Wuornos on you?”

“Hey! She’s not a hooker, man. I don’t pay for—”

“You are never going anywhere alone again! You go out on a burrito run and the next thing I know, I’ve been hit over the head with a baseball bat and tied up by Chatty Cathy, a secret expert at double-knotted bowlines and, oh yeah, a maniacal killer!”

“But she could do the most amazing things with her—” Dean was cut off by a crash, followed closely by the sound of a match being lit, loud in the sudden stillness of the cellar.

Immediately both began struggling anew.

***

“Okay, that was awesome!”

“Yeah, if you define awesome as ‘charred almost as much as the last time you attempted to cook for us,’ then I’d have to agree with you,” Sam replied, stalking away from the still-smoldering building.

“What? You’re fine. Just a little—wet,” Dean patted his shoulder and winced at the squish it made, trying to wipe his hands on a different part of the jacket and finding it equally as wet. “And a little sooty. But, hey, we’re not dead.”

“I’m gonna have to disagree with your standard of measurement. Wall of flames, Dean! Coming at me!”

“But that’s where it got awesome! You have to admit that breaking the pipe was inspired. And turning on the water! With my chin and shoulder? Aiming with my elbow? You gotta give me something here, man.”

Sam paused, looking over Dean—also wet and covered in soot, but absurdly grinning. “Fine. I give you the elbow.”

“See, I knew you’d see it my way, eventually.”

“I’m not forgetting that your inability to keep your dick in your pants almost got us killed,” he said, starting to walk again.

Dean reached for an answer—and found nothing. “It could have been worse?”

Sam stopped and turned, pinning him with a look. “How could it _possibly_ have been worse?” he asked, incredulous.

Dean opened his mouth and worked it for a moment; Sam just rolled his eyes. 

He snapped his fingers in triumph: “She could have poured the gasoline _on_ us. You know, instead of just leading up _to_ us. Then we’d _really_ be hurting.”

“Wall of fire! Coming at my head!”

“Little brother, I think you’re having a little trouble with the whole letting go thing. You should probably talk to someone about that.”

“We are alive right now because your _fling_ didn’t think she needed to douse us in gasoline. I think I’m justified.”

“Actually, I think she had a nail appointment.”

“Oh, great! That makes it better.”

“Hey, when you bring this up a couple years from now, I’d just like things to be straight.”

“I’d just like to be wearing dry underwear. Could we possibly get moving before the tiny, blonde psycho decides her French tips are less important than checking to see if her murderous plans were completed?”

Dean frowned. “I don’t think they were French tips. Wait, what do those look like, anyway?”

“I’m leaving you here.”

“Aw, now that’s just not nice.”

“I’m leaving you here and I’m walking away.”

“I thought you weren’t leaving me alone ever again?”

“That starts after I change my clothes.”

“Okay, personal space, got it.” Dean’s voice got louder as Sam got further away. “You want to meet up later and get food? I never did get those burritos!”

“Wall of fire!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he heard Dean mutter. 

***

_Mile 18,818 since Jessica._

“Oh, how I’ve missed shopping at the Salvation Army,” Sam said dryly, picking up what looked like someone’s purple pleather pantsuit.

“See, and if you hadn’t run off to go play book-boy you could have been doing this for _years_.” Dean was rifling through leather. He never could resist.

“With a pitch like that you should’ve been a salesman.”

“Hell, no! _Way_ too much traveling,” Dean said, picking out a jacket and inspecting it critically, forehead creased like this was something vastly more important than the fact that they were running out of bullets.

“Dean, you already have a leather jacket,” Sam said practically.

Attention snapped to him, focused and intense, like only Dean had ever been able to do. He smiled suddenly, like Sam had made a joke.

Sam didn’t remember making a joke.

“Keen powers of observation you got there, Sammy. I’d almost say prescient,” he paused, waving the jacket to encompass the whole store, universe maybe, “except that I know you’ve had your eye on it since you were twelve.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Not everyone wants what you have, Dean.”

“This is true. You, however, always have.”

“Uh-huh.”

“When I was fourteen you wanted my skateboard. When I was sixteen you wanted to drive the car. Hell, when I was five you stood in front of my tricycle and wouldn’t let me ride it!”

“And we’re still bitter about it, obviously.”

Dean waved that away. “All I’m saying, you covet my things, Sam.”

“Covet? I _covet_? Have you been reading the Bible again?”

“Research. And don’t try to distract me.”

“Research, right. Like that time I found those Playboys when I was twelve,” Sam said with a pointed look.

Dean grinned, then, brilliant and amused. He wiped it away just as quickly, putting on his sober Fed mask again. “Exactly.” A thought seemed to occur to him: “And you even wanted those, too!”

“Because I covet your things.”

“Covet, want, desire. It’s cool, man. I’ve got good stuff: I got the car, the jacket, the wrist cuff,” he shook his wrist approximately four inches from Sam’s eyes, a blur of tan skin and dark leather. “Really, anyone would.”

“Right.”

“Yes, it is so good to be.”

“No, that was more disbelief than agreement.”

“Aw, I thought we’d had a meeting of the minds just there. I was gettin’ all sentimental about the two of us, brothers, alone against the world—”

“And now you’re mocking me.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Appreciate it.”

“No problem. And, hey, as a token of my understanding for your plight of, well, wanting to be me…I give you this.” Dean handed him the jacket he’d been inspecting earlier with all of the solemnity of a Mass. Or a funeral.

“You haven’t even bought it yet. It’s not even yours to give.”

“Details, details. Aren’t you supposed to recognize that it’s the thought that counts?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Thanks, bro. But not quite my style.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean said with a smirk, attention already straying, eyes lighting up at the sight of two old-style ammunition cases cum purses. 

It was times like these that Sam thought he really did have the weirdest brother on Earth.

***

_Mile 19,179 since Jessica._

“Hey, do you have handcuffs?” Sam asked.

Dean tilted his head, thinking, before he patted first one pocket, then the other. Wordless, Dean tossed him a pair—that had been in his pocket?

“You keep cuffs _on you_?” Sam asked, incredulous.

Dean smirked the smirk that said Sam was way too innocent and straightened. “It helps with the local law enforcement, you know.”

And Sam—wasn’t _that_ innocent, dammit. “Yeah, they wouldn’t believe the badge, but if you’ve got cuffs, hell, you must be legit,” Sam said, dry as the air chapping their lips.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules—”

Sam shook his head, smile tugging at him involuntarily. “You are so full of it sometimes. Do you make these things up in advance or is it all improvised?”

“Oh, you know, little of this, little of that. I like to mix it up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Besides, I’m not the one _asking_ for handcuffs,” he said pointedly, looking at Sam and implying all sorts of things that he did not need his _brother_ implying. Or knowing about. You know, ever.

Sam couldn’t help the flush, annoyed at it all the same, and Dean just cracked up, like taunting Sam was the best pastime _ever_ , why hadn’t he been doing this for _years_?

Well, there was that little issue of Sam’s extended vacation.

Right. Probably not the best thing to bring up.

“It could have helped with that dogman,” he said defensively.

“So, you’ve decided to carry them on you at all times?”

“Well, maybe not _all_ times.”

“I hate to break it to you, man, but I don’t really think that’ll help.”

Sam inspected them, ignoring Dean for the moment. “They’re silver, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Then they’ll help,” he said, firm and unwavering.

Dean just rolled his eyes. “Whatever lets you sleep at night, dude.”

***

_Mile 19,442 since Jessica._

Dean tossed him a rifle and Sam caught it without thinking, mind still a couple steps back.

But this was—

“Dean, this is your Winchester.”

Dean looked up at him, then to the gun, and back to him again. His expression implied Sam had been taking stupid pills. Or something. “Yeah…”

“You love this gun.”

“Well, it is named after me,” Dean smirked.

“Jackass. But this is your _favorite_ gun,” he protested again, trying—and failing, apparently—to get the point across. Or even make one at all.

“And you need one, considering that mean policeman took yours away.”

“You used to throw a fit when I would use your guns.”

“Yeah, you were a punk kid. I didn’t want you getting your grimy fingers all over everything.”

“I was not grimy!” Sam protested, annoyed as Dean just grinned again and looked at him fondly.

“Oh, who was it that spilled yogurt in my backpack?”

“I was five,” Sam said darkly.

“Haven’t you heard, Sam? People don’t change.”

“But you’re contradicting yourself; now I’m worthy of handling your weaponry.”

“Of course not. That’s yours now.” That—Sam stilled as Dean went on merrily cleaning his pistol as if there were nothing unusual about any of this.

“But—but—” It was kind of irritating how coherence had completely abandoned him.

“Dude, Sam, it’s a _gun_. Chill.”

“Yeah.” Chill. He could chill. He was chill, he was cool, he was an ice cube.

“Oh, stop grinning like an idiot. You’ll attract attention,” Dean groused, throwing a rag at Sam.

“Sure. Whatever.”

***

_Mile 19,515 since Jessica._

“Think we can get up yet?” Sam asked, trying not to move.

“No,” Dean bit out, sounding annoyed, not that Sam could see him.

“We’ve been here awhile and it hasn’t come back.”

“That’s just what it wants you to think.”

“And how do you know what it wants you to think? You don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s a ghoul. I think.”

“It’s a bhuta.”

“Not that again.”

“We’re on the ground, Dean, and we’re not dead yet. It’s a bhuta.”

“Bhutas haunt India. This is just a really weird ghoul.”

“Ghouls possess living bodies nowadays? Make people go insane?”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, we’ve been lying here for a couple hours now. I think it got bored.”

“Ghouls don’t get bored. They eat people.”

“The bhuta probably went off to find people who don’t bury their dead properly.”

“It’s not a freakin’ bhuta, all right?” Dean said, snapping at last, sitting up and glaring at Sam.

“Well, so long as we’ve got that cleared up,” Sam said mildly, standing and brushing off the assorted bugs and dirt covering him. Sam tried spitting but it really didn’t help with the grit in his mouth. “I think I’m gonna go grab the turmeric in the car. You know, just in case.” And maybe some water.

“I think we should find the damn grave and torch this sucker.” Dean sounded petulant, which could only mean that he was annoyed about being wrong. Not that he was admitting being wrong, of course, and wouldn’t until presented with conclusive proof.

Sam rolled his eyes as he began walking, careful not to trip over the rocks and branches, but still keeping an eye out for any weird lights. “Uh-huh. Considering people have seen so many living corpses. But, oh wait, they’re insane.”

“Even if it is a bhuta—and I’m not saying it is—if we find the grave, we don’t need the turmeric.” Dean grumbled, still brushing off his clothes and trying to shake something out of his pants leg. “Man, I think a beetle crawled up my jeans.”

Sam turned, glanced down, and grinned, not trying to hide his amusement at all. “Just so you know, there are some things I _won’t_ do for you.”

“Gee, thanks. Glad to know the bonds of brotherhood go so deep. Or not.”

They’d reached the car so Sam just shook his head and dove into the trunk, trying to remember where he’d last seen the turmeric. Dean kept talking, surprise, surprise.

“It’s possible ghouls can make people go insane. You know, dead person all alive like and trying to eat you. Stress can mess with your mind, man,” Dean said, leaning against the car and kicking out his leg determinedly.

Sam didn’t even bother looking up. “And the total lack of eaten bodies? Or people,” he amended.

“It’s really bad at its job?”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure all it needs is a refresher course in ‘How to Eat People.’ The Devil probably holds them all the time. Hey, maybe we can give it some tips!” Sam said, putting extra special emphasis on the bite in his voice.

“You know, sarcasm really isn’t—um.”

When nothing was forthcoming Sam shook his head, still searching through the downright bizarre contents of the trunk. Did Dean _really_ need a pair of bunny slippers? Like, really? “Oh, c’mon, don’t tell me you lost your insult. A man your age? That’s just sad.”

“So, uh, found that turmeric yet?”

“I would have if you bothered to organize your trunk once in a while. Jesus, Dean, are you trying to drive me—”

“Yeah, Sam, I really think you need to find the damn turmeric.”

Sam straightened instantly, bumping his head, but ignoring the twinge. Dean continued on: “Because, I really don’t think that mist looks very happy.” Sam twisted and indeed, white mist, coming _at them_. Right. Turmeric.

The adrenaline _shot_ through him and Sam started dumping stuff out of the trunk, not even caring that he was throwing possibly explosive materials. Looming insanity and death kinda did that.

He finally grabbed the bag of dark green leaves and a torch. He threw a handful on the ground and torched them, watching as the leaves caught flame instantly and started smoking. The mist—almost on top of them—actually _shifted_ , letting out a weird light that flicked through several colors in rapid succession. It physically pulled in on itself, becoming a dense blob of white, still flashing at them in what Sam assumed was fear. It retreated slowly, dispersing itself the further away it got until it disappeared back into the forest.

A beat. “So maybe it’s a bhuta,” Dean admitted.

“Yeah.”

“How about we go look up suicides with no surviving heirs?”

“Sounds good to me.”

***

_Mile 19,882 since Jessica._

Dean was making notes in his notebook, checking against maps as he waited for the tank to fill. Sam watched as the numbers slowly ticked up and up; gas was expensive these days and he could tell Dean noted the increase.

They’d been switching identities a lot, too.

“Do we have enough money?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, not looking away from whatever he was doing—calculating gas mileage, coordinating positions, hell creating an astrological chart for all Sam knew.

“Yeah, but we’re going to have to stay in one place for a little while, right? To even get a new card?”

“We’ve got time.”

“How long?”

“You’re interested all of the sudden.” Dean was way too disinterested to _be_ that disinterested.

“Well, I’m in this, too, right?” 

“That’s what you said, man.”

“So stop treating me like I’m still a little kid.”

Dean quirked a rueful grin and rubbed his chin. “Sometimes you’re just like you were back then,” he said, what? Nostalgic, maybe? His grin turned bitter. “And sometimes really not. Amazing what a nice, fancy education can do.”

“I don’t—”

“Three weeks should do it. Enough time for another job and then we’ll find a nice, big city to rest in for a while. Get a couple new cards, some new names, and we’ll be off. Sound like a plan?” he asked, all business again.

“Yeah. Great.” Sam knew his voice lacked conviction, but he was too busy watching Dean’s jaw clench to care.

“So, now that that’s settled, why don’t you hop in and we can make a run for it.”

“Huh?”

“Sam, car, go. Have we reverted to age three or is it just the heat getting to your delicate sensibilities?”

“Screw you. You haven’t paid yet.”

“Ah! You are paying attention! Yes, and we should leave before the nice station manager notices I’m stalling.”

“But—you didn’t pay yet.”

Dean rolled his eyes like someone forced to endure unending stupidity. “Yeah, Sam, I know. That’s his reward for not installing the new machines. God, can we go?”

“I thought you said we were fine.”

“Well I know I’m fine, not so sure about you, though.”

Sam shook his head, shook off the casual way Dean was baiting him, and _thought_. “We can’t. This is the only station in a hundred miles. We’ll have to use it again on the way back.”

“Hey, you boys need some help?” The station manager had noticed, coming outside and eyeing them curiously.

“We’re just fine, thank you! My brother’s having trouble making up his mind,” Sam glared at him fiercely, “on what he wants to drink.” Dean shot the man his most charming, nothing-to-see-here smile, as he stood, getting out his wallet.

Dean glanced at him as he walked by, paused, eyes softer this time. “There are always choices to make.”

“And expediency isn’t always the best.”

“You’d be the expert on that,” Dean said before ambling on over to the shop, chatting up the old guy until they were both laughing like old friends. Dean looked back at Sam long enough to wink before going back to their conversation.

Sam glared.

***

_Mile 20,000 since Jessica._

“The Circle of Solomon, the Tetragrammaton, and what? The protection rune? Think you’re going a little overboard, there?”

Dean smiled like he was proud of himself for managing to get all of that into one amulet. “And I had it blessed.”

“Okay, dude, what is up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

In a blink his smile turned irritated and he practically exploded outward, such as he could in the car: “You don’t wear anything for protection! You know that’s just an invitation.”

“Well, gee, you weren’t this worried about me when I was at Stanford.”

“Nah, there I nailed a triangle of iron nails into a windowsill. And used holy water. Damned if I know how that thing got past those.” Dean looked like he’d been mulling that for a while and the rows and rows of corn weren’t offering any, the ornery bastards.

“You—”

Dean looked at him, placidly distant, but Sam knew there was _something_ underneath—worry, fear, guilt, maybe? “Not a big deal, Sam. Your standard order of protection. What, did you think we were gonna let you go and be shark bait to all the evil in the world? Yeah, right,” Dean scoffed—again, like it was no big deal.

Nails into his window— “The wood around the windows had to be replaced in September. Rains came early,” he said, half to Dean and half to himself. Almost about the time Sam had started having the—

“Oh. That would be it, then,” Dean said shortly and he’d actually gone and—

Distracted Sam. Dean was, after all, a master at it.

“I’m not helpless, Dean.”

“Never said you were.”

“No, you’re only giving me the mother of all protection amulets.”

“Always be prepared.”

“You were never a Boy Scout.”

“Well, who knows what’s in those forests those little kids are always scampering off to.”

Again, distracting. “You don’t need to worry about me,” Sam said, injecting just a hint of kindness into his voice. Any more and Dean would be puffing up, all offended and hyper-masculine.

“Because you’re not a little kid anymore, I remember.”

“Right.”

“Nevermind the fact that two women have died fiery, explosive deaths around you. Not to mention that we hunt all things evil and murderous. No, no, let’s walk around as if we’re Jesus himself, able to stay demons with a single glance.”

“I never said I was—”

“It’s stupid, Sam. You get that? It’s just _dumb_. It’s not pride and it’s not weakness and it’s not my lack of faith in your abilities. It’s just,” Dean gestured blindly, forcefully, practically hitting the rear-view mirror. “Dumb.”

He held out the amulet once again.

Sam stared at Dean for a couple moments, absorbing the image of him sitting there, hand extended and trying to get the message across _any way he could_. Sam blinked and looked away, plucking the amulet easily from Dean’s hand and slipping it over his head.

Dean didn’t say anything, just dropped his hand and turned back to the road.

The silence quickly went from awkward to downright oppressive.

Sam sighed. “You didn’t actually bless it yourself, right?”

Dean caught his eye and smiled an apology. “Why, you don’t trust me?” But truth there, too, and shit.

That wasn’t it at all…but there was no way to _say_ that. So Sam snorted and made it a joke. “Your Latin kinda sucks, dude.”

“My Latin is top notch. My Latin could beat up your Latin any day.”

“Uh-huh. You just keep telling yourself that.” Sam slyly glanced over and caught Dean’s grin, his affectionate look.

And even when Sam couldn’t say it, that trust, faith, whatever was still _there_.

“Bitch.”

Even when his brother was being an unbearable ass.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
